


Soul of Brevity

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Fandom5K 2018, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 06:33:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14827184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Feet above the ground, Peter Grant ponders his new life.





	Soul of Brevity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Orockthro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orockthro/gifts).



> I'm not sure this is what you were looking for, dear Recipient. It's probably very much a navelgazing ramble. Hopefully you can find some value in the overall thing.

Looking back on all of it, it's more than a little peculiar Peter should have accepted this new reality with so much ease of understanding and action. His hindsight is particularly crisp, like a dusted-off postcard found at the bottom of a shoebox.

That being said, he maybe should have seen it all coming long ago. Where it would take them. Whom they would become.

No one said he had to be the brightest crayon in the box.

*

The sky was still dim with the first signs of morning. Clouds had gathered and dispersed while Peter had his first cup of tea. A part of him knew it was only a dream, him snug and unconscious at the Folly, the taste of tea a figment of the mind, but a bigger part was sipping an endless sip. Nightingale was sitting across the table, busy with his own cuppa, and intent on his crosswords. Peter placed his cup on its saucer soundlessly, which should have tipped him off. It didn't. Nightingale cleared his throat.

"How are you enjoying the calm before the storm, Peter?" he asked. "'Cause corruption of French composer embracing upstart.' Fourteen across," he said.

"Sorry?"

"This would be an ideal time to pose any further questions you may have. Well? Complaints? Comments? General inquiries?"

"Pardon?"

Peter couldn't seem to get a proper sentence across. Suddenly, his tea was scalding the inside of his mouth. He'd picked up the teacup somehow. Nightingale never looked up from his crosswords.

Fourteen across.

*

He blinked awake not due to any particular sound or motion his unconscious mind had detected. He'd failed to set an alarm on his phone the evening before, that he distinctly remembered what with it being permanently busted, which would explain why it seemed to be closer to noon than dawn judging by the fickle English sunlight warming the other side of the room. Peter had fallen asleep in the general library, not for the first time that week. His civilian clothes were typically comfortable enough to take a nap in, but a full night's sleep was something else entirely.

It clearly did not count as behaviour indicative of a healthy mindset. Peter's general feeling when he considered where he stood life-wise was that he wasn't training hard enough as far as Nightingale's apprenticeship was concerned. Coupled with the inability to tell whether everything happening since the night of the first murder meant his aligiance should be to the practicality and efficiency of Lesley May and the traditional Met forces of law and order, or, instead, to the mystery that was Nightingale, English wizard and perpetual dilemma, meant that Peter's faculties were clearly heading in a direction of lack of concentration and sloppy decision-making unless he got a better handle on balancing his new life.

He rather enjoyed his old life, too, but that did not seem to be a feasible option anymore. And now he had the worst crick in the neck.

Stiffness of upper body aside, his werelight was nearly sustainable without personal bodily injury... for the most part. Peter pondered this and the likelihood of Nightingale introducing more forms he had only hinted at before as he descended the stairs. In the kitchens he found an unobtrusive clock hanging above the scarred oak table indicating it was indeed nearing half past eleven. He had no pressing matters until the afternoon, unless one counted the frustration of training, which Nightingale surely did. But that required some form of nourishment if Peter was expected to be semi-competent. He himself had no such expectations, but, well... see above.

Molly was not around to provide hand gestures towards finding non-dubious food, so Peter was on his own. He had just managed to butter a slice of golden toast when he noticed the particular stillness in the air specifically around him and vaguely in the rest of the room as well, starting with the doorway.

"I'd ask you to politely refrain from any sudden movements or gestures which would force me to render you in any way incapacitated," he heard Nightingale say from behind him and to his right. That's when Peter felt what was surely Nightingale's silver-topped cane poking into his lower back rather insistently and not at all gently.

It was just on the tip of his tongue to say, It's all been a huge misunderstanding. Or, even worse, something even further on the trite scale about not doing anything hasty.

Instead, he muttered, "Pardon?" like a lost schoolboy and promptly felt like smacking himself in the face. He compromised by shifting towards his right, arms raised, and catching sight of Nightingale's facial expression over his shoulder. He seemed focused and determined on inflicting bodily harm just enough to stave off incapacitation. Peter did not like to know how much could be accomplished without causing someone to become unconscious by a man like Nightingale.

"May I ask, before any sort of rendering can happen, whether there's any particular reason you have me at cane-point... sir?" He tried for a bland, uninterested tone he barely accomplished and a stare forward that could have pierced stone under more magical circumstances.

After several seconds ticked by with no response, Peter hazarded a, "Sir?" with a deep frown. Mostly it was worry, but also a lot of bafflement. He chanced a perk over his shoulder. Nightingale was also frowning in a worried way Peter had come to be able to detect among all the non-expressions and casually confident demeanour.

Nightingale cocked his head slowly. "Have I made your acquaintance beforehand, young man? Only... I'd like to know whether the people trying to rob me have any perceived slights resting on my shoulders, or whether it's just a case of casual breaking and entering with intent." He no longer sounded anything other than more than willing to get to that incapacitation previously mentioned.

Peter considered thinking on one's feet to be the only real asset a copper should intrinsically have. Everything else could be taught and absorbed to a certain degree, but swift and competent decision-making in a crisis was not something you could do without, unless a thorough exploration of the afterlife was your idea of fun.

With more guts than actual confidence it would work, Peter extended his left hand, muttered Lux, and tried to concentrate on producing and maintaining the best werelight ever attempted by a confused and threatened copper. It worked.

What happened next wasn't how Peter expected it to go, but the swift cane to the back of the head did mean Peter didn't have to deal with all the weirdness suddenly becoming exponentially weirder.

*

His neck was sore. Specifically the back of his neck was stiff against the back of the chair he had suddenly woken up in.

Peter shot up to his feet with more speed than grace, but it only took him a second and a half to recognise the general library and the general solitude of his surroundings. He moved his upper body carefully, trying to ascertain whether the neck pain had more to do with restless sleep or with being enthusiastically koshed by a wizard. The former seemed to hold more water as far as conclusions went. Which meant complete and utter confusion was settling in, alongside a bad feeling of things getting far worse before they got remotely better. Peter missed the days of people with peeling face and anthropomorphic bodies of water. Somewhere, Beverley was probably laughing at his expense.

All right. OK. A course of action was necessary.

Taking it logically, Peter knew he did not have much of a chance in anything resembling a magical fight with Nightingale. Or with anyone with a magical bent, really.

Right. Reassess what is already known. Peter knew the laws of reality were pretty skewed as far as his current life went. He knew magic, and hence all that was odd and strange, played a pretty central role in his life now. As did the likelihood of something like this level of unexplainable occurring in his life, especially while at the Folly. Nothing wrong there. Too bad that reassessment offered no real plan or idea on what was actually happening.

Right. Facts.

Nightingale didn't remember him. Nightingale thought he was a robber... of some sort. Grand. Of course he would react in that way to a complete stranger at the Folly. Peter's more surprised there hadn't been more maiming and less giving Peter the chance to even endeavour to explain himself. Not that he could. Not that he can now. Not if Nightingale didn't remember him. Shit.

A plan was necessary in the most dire of ways. OK. All right. Go downstairs. Inspect the premises. Maybe anticipate Nightingale's move to try to counter it. Try very hard not to become apprentice mincemeat or worse. Try not to underestimate anything. Or anyone. More precisely Nightingale. Peter would rather Molly appeared out of nowhere and koshed him. Or an errant Toby bit him.

Mental.

No time for that. Have to keep it slightly together, enough to stop whatever was happening. Delay it. Something useful.

Peter crept along downstairs and considered for an instant of bypassing the kitchens altogether... so Nightingale could kosh him in some other room. Grand. And likely to happen.

The clock above the scarred oak table showed the same time as before. An idea was starting to take hold about what was happening, if not why or how. Before Peter could do any mental exploring in that area he felt the cane poking into his back.

"I'd ask you to politely refrain from any sudden movements or gestures which would force me to render you in any way incapacitated," he heard Nightingale repeat the words neatly.

"No gestures or movements of any kind here... sir," he said straight away. He didn’t bother trying to peek behind him.

"Glad to hear it," came the reply. Hope swelled inside Peter's chest. Not for long, though.

"While it has been lovely, I'm afraid it doesn't look well for you."

The expected banter did not come forth.

Peter expected it after about half a second of anticipation. The cane hit in the same spot as before. It only served to emphasise how much Peter was lacking anything resembling a handle on the situation. It also still bloody well hurt for the instant before total oblivion.

*

Peter blinked awake more out of confusion than any real desire to be awake.

Rince. Repeat. It couldn't go on. Mostly because any type of time paradox, which this surely was, had to have some high-level repercussions Peter was singularly unprepared to deal with for any amount of time. The person able to do so didn't remember him, hence the likelihood of receiving assistance being wholly in the negative. Peter's chances weren't good.

He had to go through the motions because the alternative was no alternative at all. But he had to influence the outcome in such a way as to gain ground. Or at least stay conscious.

Clearly he was in some sort of time loop, seemingly without any physical repercussions, but not willing to find out if that was truly the case. He needed to stop rinsing and repeating. Or do something to stop it. It seemed just as likely it would not stop by itself and return him to a linear reality where Nightingale remembered him unless he forced his way into that reality by any means at his disposal.

He checked the inside pocket of his jacket. His warrant card was where he'd last placed it.

*

Peter considered his options for not getting knocked unconscious more times than strictly necessary and came up with no solid idea, but a few rocky ones ge was willing to put into motion at his earliest convenience. Which would be now.

Time to face the kitchens.

*

The Folly was a decent enough place if you were willing not to have any expectations about being told things in general. Nightingale dispersed with enough information to explain anything that would come up, but the specificity of detail of most of what Peter was undertaking at any given moment seemed to be absent. That was bound to be more of an issue than simple annoyance on Peter's part for being kept in the dark about the minutiae of his apprenticeship. Most of the time he didn't even feel that as long as time would reveal all. It had up until that point. Too bad more was required to potentially convince Nightingale not to hit him upside the head hard enough to reset time.

As he made his way downstairs, Peter considered his options given that there were many ways in which this entire endeavour could go pear-shaped. Peter didn't even particularly care for pears. And he was possibly losing his mind here as well. Likely.

The downstairs were empty. Clock showing the same time. Peter considered plucking his warrant card out of his pocket preemptively. Not fast enough, it seemed. Cane to the lower back, witty and vaguely sardonic banter, all Nightingale.

"I might be able to explain," he chanced this time around before Nightingale could gain the verbal upper hand. Quick shift of the cane's pointy end against his vertebrae. Brief silence while Nightingale hopefully considered the offer of an explanation more enticing than the certainty of bodily harm against a potential robber. Peter couldn't quite parse which way it would go. Nightingale was not an easy man to predict.

"Do tell." Witty banter it was. Clearly Peter had only a few moments at best to state his case. It was not a comforting thought. He hadn't had many of those in a while, so the bar was set pretty low.

"I'm a Detective Constable. My name is Peter Grant and I'm your apprentice. Here. At the Folly. Warrant card's in the right-hand inside pocket right there. I'd appreciate a bit less koshing this time around if at all possible, sir." He ended all in a rush, wary of exhausting Nightingale's patience. Or his own luck. The latter wasn't enough to go around or go to waste.

For several unaccountably long moments Nightingale stayed silent. Peter was too defeated by his own heartbeat, now somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, to count them. They felt unending. It would almost had been promising, if not for the fact that Nightingale was not reaching for Peter's pocket with the intention of checking his brief and wondrous story.

"An apprentice? Are you now?" Peter knew by the tone it was all over.

The blow came quickly enough this time.

*

It was getting tired and tiring. Peter was tired. And stiff. He wondered if there was a way to prolong the sleep before the eventual waking up to a reality he had to work incredibly hard just to make have some sort of sense. Not that he ever had the confort of actual sleep, but his strategy was not bearing anything even remotely approaching results.

He wondered if remaining confined to the library was even an option. Nightingale would suss out an intruder sooner or later, so later seemed like an option for a man in need to time to formulate a plan possessing the slightest inkling of working.

The waiting was even more tiring given how Peter's plans weren't the most sound. He couldn't beat Nightingale in a physical fight, much less a magical one. The only thing he could hope to do was state his case enough to engender some measure of doubt that he were far from a robber. As long as he could hook Nightingale enough to have him hesitate and not render Peter once again unconscious he had a fighting chance. Or he would be stuck in an endless loop until the end of eternity. That was a sobering enough thought if he were in need of even more motivation to focus on a plan more likely to succeed.

Warrant card at the ready this time around, he headed to the kitchens more noisily than before. No reason to seek invisibility since Nightingale clearly knew he was on the premises given how quickly he would constantly appear after Peter reached the kitchens. It didn't even strike Peter as uncanny anymore, if it even did.

Rinse. Repeat. Hopefully for the last time.

Nightingale approached summarily and Peter took his chance. He needed to impress the gravity of the situation while also persuasively stating his case to find that chink in the armour. If it existed. And that thought needed to leave his head as soon as possible. There was no alternative.

"Nightingale sir. My warrant card." That stopped anything Nightingale could have offered from his position right on the cusp of entering the kitchens, cane at the ready. Peter shuffled the warrant card between his fingers. Just in case Nightingale had forgot about it in the half a second since Peter stopped talking.

The pause was brief, but Peter wasn't sure how to break it in such a way that it would favour him. He had jumped too far the previous times he'd tried to state his case. He had been swift and precise this time around. Knew the clock would show the same time as before, so no reason to check it once more. The oak table would probably occupy that very same spot until the end of time. No reason to waste the momentum with unnecessary details. Gaping at his surroundings could hardly instill confidence in Nightingale about Peter's supposed identity.

"Have we had the pleasure of meeting before?" Nightingale asked after what seemed like an interminable pause Peter felt in his toes. "Only I could hardly forget such an attractive young man gracing me with his presence."

Peter may or may not have been staring with his jaw on the floor.

"Pardon?" he couldn't help squeaking.

Nightingale smiled in a way Peter supposed was meant to appear charming. And possibly hide a trap. Peter looked into Nightingale's eyes for the space of a blink. Definitely a trap.

"Sir, I'm a DC under you." He tried not to blush at his own wording.

This was all backfiring in new and unexpected ways, Peter had to admit. Almost impressive how badly this could go based on so little. This had to be some sort of record.

"Of course you are." He said it like a taunt and an invitation all at once. Truly even more impressive, and if Peter hadn't known for certain Nightingale was lacking a sense of humour approaching this level of absurdity he would be tempted to suspect a different kind of foul play. As it stood, it was losing him any semblance of ground. Or hope to avoid another loop.

"I'm currently at the start of my apprenticeship, if you must know," he replied rather tartly. The tiredness was again settling in. He might also have wanted to provoke a reaction less to do with taunting. He was tempted to try the werelight again, but he needed more focus than he was able to presently muster not to damage himself or his surroundings.

Oddly enough, Nightingale bit in the strangest of ways.

"Oh, yes? And what have i been teaching you?" The cane swung gracefully around Nightingale's feet. It was a gesture meant to look casual.

For an instant, Peter thought it was part of Nightingale's ribbing. It could have been. Upon further thought, it had the wrong kind of casual for that. Too dishevelled if gestures could ve dishevelled. Too... uncharacteristic to mimic an everyday action. It had looked almost like a gesture of worry. But that made even less sense.

The closest approximation of what might have been going on with Nightingale was that Peter had managed to worry him and he was trying to hide it. Which meant that of all that Peter had managed to show Nightingale something had struck a chord of worry neither had anticipated. Peter needed to find it before the window if opportunity in this particular loop clised permanently.

"If you don't remember me, sir, then i can assure you I remember you. And my training. I might still be at the start, but I can produce a not too shabby werelight. Like me to show you?" It was a risk.

Nightingale blinked. "By all means." The cane stopped bouncing around in a way that was almost unintentional.

Peter needed to concentrate. He clenched and unclenched his left hand the once and concentrated on the werelight. He gad to strain to keep it going where it wouldn't hurt it or damage the room, but he did decently enough it seemed to have Nightingale narrow his eyes and shift his glance from the werelight to Peter's face and back again. Peter had to wait it out, but felt the opposite of confident he cpuld maintain the werelight before Nightingale would proceed. He waited less than he would have expected.

"That's quite enough, young man."

"Peter," he intervened. Not his stupidest move to date. Nightingale didn't make a move that might lead to him being once again unconscious, so he took that as something approaching promising.

"Quite. Now you may stop your spectacle. You risk spraining something." Peter had a snaky reply for that, but agreed the werelight had gone on long enough. The sense of relief was overwhelming. He tried not to let that distract him from the situation and goal at hand, especially since he was drawing closer to finding an even bigger chink.

"Still a novice," Peter offered. Nightingale either didn't hear or chose to ignore that. Might as well. "Listen, I'm fully aware you don't remember me. I'm stuck in your not remembering me, so, believe me, I know." He sighed. The frustration was reaching the surface quicker than the survival instinct could curve it.

This seemed like a good moment for Nightingale to ask questions, interrogate him, either to judge his story to gain details of what the situation was and how it could be solved. Memory loss seemed like a thing that would take immediate priority once the possibility was entertained.

If he didn't, Peter would, it seemed.

"I remember you, though there isn't that much to remember other than how completely in the dark I am about all this. You set me tasks, and I comply, but it's like working on chains that make up the whole without knowing what that is." He sighed again and looked to the side. This was getting beyond the regular levels of embarrassment Nightingale oftentimes inspired in him. This was reaching new uncharted levels Peter had trouble imagining living down unless time reset itself and the loop started up once more.

"And that frustrates you?" Nightingale surprised him by asking.

Peter glanced sharply up. "Like you wouldn't believe." Sigh. "I'd like to know not all because I do realise that's probably impossible. That's fine," he hurried to add. "I just. You're a mystery that keeps on defying clarity. I'm not sure where I stand. Where my future with you is. Whether there is one. I'm in the dark, and maybe it's once me, too, for not asking this when we started. But. I want. I need to know where the goal is, other than the goals you set me." He finished with a deep inhale. Not his most coherent. Or eloquent.

For more seconds than in a minute Peter waited. Nightingale was, oddly enough, staring into space quite placidly. He wasn't approaching blankness, but he was stuck in his own head, clearly. Peter would have been as well. The words had been honest, so it was less likely Nightingale would think it was Peter trying to talk himself out of it all by employing the most embarrassing, truly mortifying, speech in the history of ever. If anything it probably confused him more. Peter couldn't even be thankful it was buying him time since he had no gambit left to play to gain more footing.

"Well. Thank you for your honesty," Nightingale finally said. He didn't sound sardonic, so there was that. Peter didn't know what it meant, in general and for him in this situation. Was it a stalemate? Nightingale didn't seem capable of any such thing.

"You're welcome," Peter replied for lack of just leaving it at that. Plus, it made it sound more like they were having a conversation and not as if Peter were saying things too uncomfortable for polite company for no other reason than that Nightingale probably wouldn't remember them anyway.

Maybe another loop wouldn't hurt was not a happy thought but definitely a real one.

Peter shook his head just to knock that thought out. It probably made him seem even more mental than the soliloquy, but the bar for this too was set pretty darn low.

Nightingale cleared his voice once. Then once more.

"Well, DC... uh. Ahem." More clearing of the tonsils. It suddenly dawned on Peter it was very much intentional. And odd. Once more Nightingale being very odd for no apparent reason. Or the reason was stalling. Which was not a reason at all.

"Grant," he dutifully supplied.

"DC Grant. Yes. It seems I must trust this is the best course of action, or face ruin. That yet may come, either way." It sounded as if it were both paining Nightingale to act and speak about the action he was about to take and he was resigned to do what must be done. Peter hoped it meant him not waking up in the library with a stiff neck and with even less of a chance of breaking the loop.

The next moment looked like Peter's failure once more was showing its face. Nightingale was raising his cane, and Peter wondered for an instant whether a full-frontal hit was the way it was going to go this time around. Then the moment passed and the thought with it. Peter clearly saw now the light emerging from the cane as if it were directing sunlight from the source. Nightingale was muttering words Peter had no chance of grasping before the world became made of light from without and then from within as well.

 

*

The light stopped his breathing, or maybe he was just too much in awe to breathe. He recovered as the light faded and the room returned to its usual state. Nightingale was looking at him with an odd expression. Peter searched it until he found the sliver of recognition. It was all he ever wanted or needed.

He stepped forward impelled by his own enthusiasm. It was a new effervescence. It felt normal given... everything. He had to clear his throat to get coherent words out, like he'd turned into a rusty faucet.

"Glad to have you back, sir. Well. Have us back, I guess." It didn't seem real. Peter touched Nightingale's sleeve just for the tangible proof. It didn't prove anything; the look on Nightingale's face did. "Definitely back."

"Quite," Nightingale said, looking from Peter's face to where Peter was still clutching at his sleeve.

"Um." Not his most eloquent.

"Anything you'd care to add, DC Grant?" The forced formality was jarring. "Now would be the time," he added.

Peter cleared his voice. "Just glad to have you back... sir," he repeated inanely. He moved closed just for the sake of doing something proactive.

Nightingale shifted in the most alarming way. Peter was unprepared for the kiss, while faintly considering how he'd been the one to shift closer to better reach Nightingale's mouth. Opening Peter's mouth with his tongue was all Nightingale, though.

It lasted more than expected and not enough for Peter's liking. It was partially adrenaline, but also a clearer understanding of their circumstances. Relationship. Something. Whatever they had. Probably a relationship of sorts, going well past the professional, Nightingale's right arm snaking around Peter's waist and Peter's grip of his other arm going from just a faint grasp of Nightingale's sleeve to a slow movement up the arm to the solidness right underneath the shoulder, a firm bicep held in Peter's hand. Not quite enough.

This had to wait.

It struck Peter as a thought out of nowhere, and yet exactly what he had been vaguely considering while nibbling on Nightingale's lower lip.

This had to wait.

He disengaged enough to gain distance between his face and Nightingale's. The rest could wait for the requisite distancing if necessary.

"It's maybe... not the time," he muttered. The shyness didn't become him, but he was dealing with a different sort of man than usual.

"Certainly," Nightingale acquiesced. It felt like a hollow reprieve. Peter didn't want to dive into another kiss only to have to pull back promptly. He needed to stand his ground.

This had to wait. Surely. Peter was in the middle of not just one, but two cases he was supremely unprepared to handle successfully unless he focused any last shred of concentration on his current training. Regardless of what Nightingale had expressed previously, Peter needed that focus where it counted. The impending sexual crisis did not help any, either.

"I'm definitely... interested," he muttered. Nightingale quirked an eyebrow. "In you. In this. You know what I mean." He finished on a more confident note he didn't quite feel he could back up with much more than bravado.

"You've guessed my interest, Peter. Well. More like I've announced it whole-heartedly during one of the loops." Which meant Nightingale now had not just his previous memories back, but also those pertaining to the loop. Although Peter was not the only who had shown his hard before, as it were, he felt a flush staining his cheeks.

"I can hardly blame you the wait," Nightingale continued. "I, in fact, admire it." A faint smile graced his lips for an instant. It was welcomed in a way Peter couldn't quite explain in himself just yet. "Well then. What were you saying before about a broadband connection? I seem to recall a case being made by you regarding the need for the access to reliable Internet."

And just like that they were back to the situation at hand. Peter did think the faint quirkiness of the lip remained and a shy twinkle of the eye made itself known not long after. The latter didn't feel new. Not when viewed from this distance. It was a distance Peter was becoming increasingly more comfortable with.

Hindsight really was twenty-twenty.


End file.
